


(your gun, my shame) blood spilled in my name

by Authumnder



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Hockey Players (Hockey RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authumnder/pseuds/Authumnder
Summary: Some fucking fate, wouldn’t it be, if Jimmy were to bejustanother invisible bloodstain on Brady’s hands, another nonexistent speck of dirt on his suit?(Jimmy hacks shit and betrays; occasionally Brady beats people with a crowbar. Not the kind of a match made in heaven, they are.)
Relationships: Brady Skjei/Jimmy Vesey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	(your gun, my shame) blood spilled in my name

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly inspired by [The Con Artists](http://asianwiki.com/The_Con_Artists) movie. Rewatching it made me realise how thicc the Tension™ is between the thief and the right-hand man ("What? Are you scared of the police?" said with the most infuriating eyebrow rise _ever_), so ofc I decided to write about the right-hand man and the hacker (yes.... The hacker... The thief is Very Hot but Lee Hyunwoo the hacker is also Very Cute and I have feelings, okay).
> 
> This is absolutely different from the movie, though, in the way this doesn't contain complicated plot at all lol. Go watch the movie instead! It's very good I promise. Title from Silver & Gold by Pieces of Juno.
> 
> Thank you for dropping by. I had much fun writing this, hope you do as well reading :D

Jimmy only meets Brady after he betrayed his seventh crime partner.

It wasn’t intentional, Jimmy would like to mention, he wasn’t that much of a scumbag. Plus, Smith was nice, kind of, although kindness has never been a trait useful in their line of work, proven right with the way this one ended: Smith, blown to splinters, and Jimmy, $800,000 richer. Again, he’d like to repeat: _it wasn’t intentional_.

“It totally was,” was Brady’s first words, said sharply to cut in Jimmy’s explanation. When Jimmy looks at him, he’s glaring. “You knew there was a bomb nearby, you knew how to deactivate it. You didn’t.”

Well, put it like that—

“There wasn’t time,” Jimmy says, totally calm. He isn’t fiddling with his sleeves. Absolutely not. “He was being chased and I was too busy trying to find him a way out.”

Brady opens his mouth again, Jimmy immediately knowing that whatever comes out of that perfect-shaped lips he would have no reply to, though luckily Mr. Choi clears his throat—a command that there better be no more conversation. Jimmy supports that. He will _never _support Mr. Choi’s existence, but he does, for this one decision.

Jimmy didn’t even know Mr. Choi’s existence before this; a foolishness, if you will, the kind that is severe enough to bite him in the ass _hard _as a consequence. Mr. Choi is an ugly Korean man, his full name Jimmy doesn’t bother to find out, because everyone freezes up after the word _Choi _was muttered, no need for more. _Mr. Choi would like to see you_, and you better move your ass right that second to see him, _Mr. Choi would like to offer you a job_, and you better get started on that job right away. Not a small-talk man, that Mr. Choi, and apparently Jimmy was the only one stupid enough to attempt to run away from him and his goons.

He got caught, in the end—because of course he did.

The embarrassing part was that it didn’t take a lot for Mr. Choi to find him. A few lowly thugs, not even a car chase, just your usual kidnapping, and Jimmy was done.

And then he meets Brady.

Brady is, for lack of any better description, beautiful. For a second there Jimmy forgot how lethal he was, staring at all those perfect features, not excluding the scary scar across his nose—because on that holy face, it added characters, instead of becoming a deformity. The way he’s dressed to the nines, flawless and unstained, even though there’s no way he was any better, _cleaner_, than Jimmy. Rotten to the core. A person bound for hell.

Jimmy learns that Brady is Mr. Choi’s right-hand man, the one important and trusted enough to accompany him everywhere, the old man’s protector. Later, Jimmy also learns that Brady buried Mr. Choi’s accountant in cement, _alive_, just an hour before their first meeting. There’s not a spot of dirt on his suit.

_There’s blood on your hands_, Jimmy thinks, stares some more at Brady in fascination. _There’s so much blood on your hands it dilutes into nothing. _

“All of your former partners ended in tragedy,” Brady replies, eyes cold and piercing. “Your hands aren’t any cleaner than mine. You’re just coward enough to not touch it directly.”

“I didn’t say anything about mine,” Jimmy says with a shrug. It’s true. Six of his former partners died a tragic death, the other one jailed for life. Jimmy has nothing to say to defend himself. At this point, he is above lying about himself.

Brady doesn’t say anything back.

Mr. Choi wants Jimmy to hack into the New York Harbor systems. There’s $150 million waiting to be stolen if he succeeds, and if he does, he’ll get five percent of it—plus an insurance that he will get out of Mr. Choi’s snare, alive and well.

It doesn’t take too much thinking to realise that it’s a suicide mission. Too many risks, too little possibilities of getting out of it prosperous. Jimmy isn’t the one to do the actual money-retrieving—that’s the unlucky Japanese dude’s job—but his future doesn’t seem to be very bright either if they fail. Mr. Choi says, _get into the main frameworks and shut them down, _and, _5% commision for each of you in this mission if you succeed_. He doesn’t say, _I’ll still let you go if you fail_, meaning: _you’re to be buried in cement or burnt in freaky fire or getting beaten up beyond recognition or being torn up into pieces by feral animals’ teeth if you fail to bring me my $150 million. _

The thing is, the old bastard also has their cards—Jimmy’s, the Japanese dude’s, the Japanese dude’s accomplice’s. For Jimmy, it’s his father. Japanese dude, his girlfriend (or wife, maybe, Jimmy isn’t paying attention, the horror of seeing his father’s face in the photograph clutched on Brady’s hands dawning too fast and wholly). Japanese dude’s accomplice, his daughter.

They have no choice but to agree to the mission—it’s too late to say no, anyway, Choi’s men will just haunt them down and force them into submission, or. Or kill them, Jimmy guesses, it wouldn’t be too hard. There are many skilled hackers and thiefs and bomb makers out there, they were just unfortunate enough to be found first.

Japanese dude is fidgety, competent enough to carry the job, not quite so to both get the money _and _them out of the port. If he was lucky, he’d be able to crack the safe where the million dollars are stored and send them Choi’s way, and that’s basically it. You know how it goes—Jimmy knows, as does the Japanese dude and the accomplice—you get Choi his money, he breaks his word and kill all of you before you could even see the promised 5%.

Like Jimmy’s said before, it’s a suicide mission.

Jimmy does his job, though. Brady accompanies him during his first visit to the area, standing beside him as Jimmy takes in information regarding the systems and security cameras placement and stuff along those lines, all eagle eyes. His distrust is so obvious it annoys the hell out of Jimmy, though he allows it for the first, second visit, but by the third he’s had enough of it.

“If you don’t trust me that much,” Jimmy says, gripping his clipboard so hard it cracks along the side, “why the fuck did you fucking hire me in the first place?”

Brady doesn’t even spare him a glance. Just as Jimmy thinks he’s never going to get an aswer, he says, stoically, “You were great on your last missions.”

“Yes, and that’s only because my partners let me do my job in peace!” Jimmy spits. It probably isn’t a good idea to get pissed off at the guy capable to end him with only his pinkie, but Jimmy’s always been a little shit, so.

“A lack of foresight on their part, I’d guess,” Brady says, “considering all of them didn’t get out—”

“Fuck you.” Jimmy says, and storms off.

The next one isn’t significantly better, but _better_, Jimmy deciding to keep his mouth shut and work in silent, and Brady does as well, following him around like a docile guard dog. The contrast between them is almost blinding—Brady in one of his impeccable suits, hair slicked back, looking smooth and polished and too _much_ next to Jimmy in his ratty jeans and old hoodie.

They walk to the exit separately when Jimmy deems it enough information for the day, which isn’t unusual, but then a different car is waiting for him, with another driver, and everything starts to make no sense.

“You’re not coming with us?” he asks Brady, who’s walking the other way after saying something to the driver. Brady ignores him, so Jimmy yells out, “Brady!”

Brady is a good few feet away when he turns. He doesn’t say anything though, just points at the open door of the car before walking away again. It’s even more frustrating when the driver refuses to drive him to the warehouse, where he and Japanese dude and Japanese dude’s accomplice live temporarily as they finalize the heist, not even after Jimmy threatens him with very graphic and disturbing threats. The guy finally relents after half an hour or so, but only after receiving a call which only lasts for thirty seconds.

What’s happening is crystal clear to Jimmy upon arriving. Taking in Japanese dude’s shocked face, the way he’s pulled straight as a ramroad, the building ominously silent, Brady’s cold and merciless presence—

Jimmy stalks towards where Brady’s standing, heart in his throat, eyes strangely hot. “What’d you do to him?” he demands, loud. He knows something’s happened, can even pinpoint it if asked, but he still wants a straight answer from Brady’s goddamn mouth.

That day Jimmy learns Japanese dude’s accomplice was Korean. His name was Baek, his daughter barely six. He wasn’t a stupid man, he knew he wasn’t going to get out of this mission alive, so he made a plan to escape. It was supposed to take place on Monday, two days from today, except it couldn’t happen, never anymore, because Brady found out about it and beat him to death with a fucking crowbar right in front of Japanese dude to—to make a fucking point, Jimmy guesses, which is just so fucking… immoral and wrong and unforgivable and.

The crowbar is laying dormant on the side of the warehouse, sticky with blood and who knows what else, brain matters maybe, Jimmy doesn’t want to fucking know. Meanwhile Brady’s still standing tall, exquisite and untouchable, not even a speck of blood, any leftover of the crime he’s just committed, on his suit.

“I am the fucking traitor,” Jimmy says, oddly flat even though he’s almost breathless with anger. “If you wanted to make a fucking point, do that in front of me.”

There isn’t that much space between them now, and Jimmy maybe should take a step back—because it’s a lot, taking Brady’s cold stare, but Jimmy doesn’t. Stares back, resolute, and has to mentally flinch when he finds no remorse whatsoever in those eyes.

“You’ll have your turn,” is what Brady says, at the end, before turning away.

Choi brings in another guy as their bomb maker, a stoic German who’s unfazed with the obvious threats Choi’s sending his way—has accepted his fate, it seems, or maybe has already reached the point of jadedness in which everything no longer matters, or perhaps he’s just as heartless as Choi is—as Brady is, Jimmy guesses. Jimmy would use himself as a comparison as well, but he knows that’s not true, he hacks shit and all, but he doesn’t kill. Murder doesn’t go past him like a breeze, probably would never go past him like a breeze. Instead, it’s a weight, a motherfucking huge of a weight, that is.

They don’t work together really well, no, they absolutely don’t. Their opinions regarding the best way to do stuff clash hard, language barrier adding even more to the frustration, but at the end it doesn’t matter. Somehow they make it work. They _have _to.

Jimmy should stay as far away from Brady as he could possibly manage, Jimmy knows. He also happens to know that it’s practically impossible, considering he’s still thought as prime suspect of any future treachery, which apparently makes him Brady’s first and utmost responsibility, meaning that Brady’s almost _always _following him around.

That’s not the only reason why, though, honestly, because let’s face it: Brady has had Jimmy’s eyes since that first meeting, and he hasn’t let them go since.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when it happens—but it does, Jimmy in disbelief at the extent of his own bastardness, his conscience getting looser and looser as days go by. He couldn’t find it in himself to regret it, though, the same way he couldn’t find any sign of remorse on Brady’s eyes after the killing, which should make him feel guilty because he’s not—he’s never gonna be on Brady and Choi’s level. He won’t allow himself to be.

And yet.

Brady hates him on sight, but he doesn’t move away when Jimmy first goes in for a kiss. Reciprocates, in fact, with the kind of eargerness you reserve for people you love, not those you always seem to calculate—but anyway.

Jimmy doesn’t pull back or put a stop to it, even aware of all the wrongness this touch contains, because it is indeed what he wants; yearns for, maybe, since that day Brady had his father’s fucking face in his unholy hands. He rushes for a deeper kind, and Brady allows, and they don’t stop till they absolutely have to.

Brady’s glare has softened when Jimmy looks at him again, strands of hair loose on his forehead, dark against the paleness of his skin. He seems to have lost his eloquence, at least for the moment, and Jimmy steals it to take him in, because for once he looks humane—alive and warm and breathing, and for once, for this one tiny teeny moment, Jimmy is able to forget how he looks after he ended people’s lives.

It doesn’t last very long; that small crevice closing off immediately.

“Probably shouldn’t have done that,” Jimmy says before turning around, not giving Brady a chance to voice his own opinion about it.

He feels fucking awful when he gets back. Goes to take a shower and feels worse, like the more he rubs clean everything the dirtier he gets, as though he’s spreading the badness around his body until there’s not a single place in which Brady wasn’t there.

And yet.

Nearing D-Day, making sure the plan’s solid and foolproof and executable is kind of important, so a week before it Jimmy’s back at the port, Brady a few steps away behind him. It’s the usual round, almost routine now, to find someplace hidden, mostly behind containers somewhere, to get out Jimmy’s equipment and make sure they still have a hand in the system. This time, though, the end is a little different.

“We’re not going back to the warehouse?” Jimmy asks when the car takes a different turn from usual. No driver today, either, which Jimmy worries about. Can’t help it, not when you know the kind of things Brady’s capable of.

Brady shrugs. Jimmy takes that as confirmation that somehow he’s made a grave mistake, one that demands his death as the only acceptable recompense. He thinks of an escape the whole drive, and finds that he has nothing, absolutely nothing. Thinks of an offer, something great and exceptional and profitable that’ll get him out alive, but.

It’s Brady. And Brady doesn’t betray.

“Bringing me somewhere abandoned, huh?” is what Jimmy settles on. It’s improbable, anyway, trying to convince the guy to keep him alive, not like Jimmy has anything good to say about himself that’d make Brady reconsider. Hell, Brady would probably enjoy the hell out of ending Jimmy’s life, and that’s.

Jimmy kissed this guy, is all. Liked it, too, at that. Some fucking fate, wouldn’t it be, if Jimmy were to be _just_ another invisible bloodstain on Brady’s hands, another nonexistent speck of dirt on his suit?

That’d serve Jimmy right, honestly.

“You mind giving me time to write my will?” Jimmy says, trying his best to sound light. He has some crumpled receipts in his pocket he could probably use as a substitute for a proper paper sheet. His old man deserves some money, at the very least, after all the pain and shame Jimmy’s put him through. But like, how much could he trust Brady to not just rip his totally valid and not-at-all improper will once Jimmy’s gone?

You know what, he’ll just ask. “And like, pass it to my dad as well?”

Brady only raises an eyebrow as a response, which is not helpful at all, though at least it gives Jimmy reassurance that he’s not going to intervene as Jimmy writes up his will. He starts rummaging through his pockets to collect those receipts.

Except—Brady doesn’t drive them to some abandoned building in a shady area where some crowbar will be waiting. Brady drives them to some hole-in-the-wall, gets Jimmy a cheeseburger and some french fries and a strawberry milkshake after Jimmy fails to answer the server’s ‘what can I get you?’, and then, after they get their food, drives them again to some empty parking lot where—this is worth noting, yes—no crowbar is present.

Jimmy’s too gobsmacked by it all to do anything but stare at his lap where his bag of food and his fistful of old receipts (also known as Jimmy’s wills) are.

Brady doesn’t say anything, but he has this glint in his eyes and a curve on the corners of his lips that tell Jimmy that he absolutely finds this situation amusing. Jimmy kind of wants to hit him, yell at him, but doesn’t. Stares at him, instead, because it’s so hard not to, and feels—

_Helpless _is not the word, but it is one of the closest.

Later, on the drive back to the warehouse, Jimmy gathers enough courage to loudly ask: “Was that an attempt of a date?” and gets neither yes nor no, but a flat, “Do you want to die?” which is. Answer enough, Jimmy guesses.

Kissing is easier, after. Jimmy learns that, apparently, you don’t have to forgive someone to enjoy kissing them, because Jimmy does, each time, can’t help but drown in the warmth that Brady offers, too high on adrenaline to fully take in what this means, the ugly reality surrounding them. By the time it finally dawns on him, there’ll be no going back.

“You and that thug, huh?” asks German dude one day, nonchalant, as though he’s not putting Jimmy’s life on the line right here and now. “I wouldn’t expect.”

“You—it’s not—” Jimmy starts scrambling for an excuse, cold all over, but German dude only turns back to his chemicals and shrugs.

“It’s no matter to me,” he says. “You do your job and I do mine. And then we all die.”

It would be downright depressing hearing that if it weren’t also so funny. Jimmy swallows back his laughter, goes back to his computer, and tries his hardest to stomp on every stray thoughts he has of—of Brady, because thinking of Brady—

Thinking of Brady gives him butterflies, Jimmy’s discovered. Can’t help but wonder if it’s like that for Brady too. But if Jimmy gives Brady any, he probably would just digest it. Easily.

When Jimmy falls into bed with him, it feels inevitable.

It’s not something unimaginable, fucking Brady; the kisses stay the same, touches light and heated, the slam of their bodies new and impersonal, as Jimmy’s expected, the raggedy breath. It’s everything Jimmy’s gone through before, it’s just that it’s Brady, so of course it’s electric all the same.

Brady doesn’t like staying in bed after, but Jimmy does, and maybe he does have some sort of power over Brady because when he pulls, Brady doesn’t resist.

“You owe him no shit, you know?” Jimmy says into Brady’s shoulder, because the right-hand men of infamous bad guys always feel like they owe something. Their lives, in most cases, although Jimmy would take a shot in the dark and say that’s simply not true. No one should owe someone big enough that the only payment they could possibly give is by helping them threaten and beat people to death with a fucking crowbar.

Brady runs warm, but his eyes are cold and apathetic when they bore into Jimmy. He says, “I’m not doing what you’re asking.”

Right. Because Brady doesn’t betray.

“Choi’s not a good person,” Jimmy says, almost desperate.

“Neither am I,” Brady replies. He makes it sound final. _There’s not gonna be a change_, _you and I don’t mean enough to make a change in anything_, Brady doesn’t say aloud, but it’s clear anyway.

Jimmy tries sympathy, as a last resort. “You’re just gonna kill us whether we’re successful or not, aren’t you?” he asks, and only gets a pat to the head and a thin smile in return.

Japanese dude doesn’t say he has a plan, but Jimmy knows he does. German dude does as well, though he’s less reserved about it. Jimmy’s the only one with his hands empty, it turns out, and god, isn’t he fucked enough already?

The morning of the heist, Jimmy wakes up on a bed in a hotel room, well-rested, with Brady hot on his back. There’s an arm slung over his waist, Brady’s face buried in Jimmy’s neck. For a day that’s supposed to end in flames (quite literally), it surprisingly starts with the kind of tenderness Jimmy wouldn’t expect otherwise, and he makes sure to take a moment to appreciate it the best he could.

For a terrifying second, Jimmy wishes they could stay like this.

Brady’s groggy when he finally regains consciousness, burying his face deeper into the crook of Jimmy’s neck, groaning low—funnily, this act feels more intimate than when Jimmy had his legs on Brady’s shoulders, bodies moving along with the harsh rhythm of them fucking. Brady refuses to kiss before they brush their teeth, so that’s what they do, and that’s weird too, their reflections on the bathroom mirror: misplaced and wrong.

Brady lets Jimmy gather him in his arms and hold tight when it’s time for goodbye—and there they are, the butterflies in Jimmy’s stomach, alive and well yet again. They’re going to get brutally murdered, Jimmy thinks sadly, _soon_.

_I didn’t invite you to come here, you’re here on your own, _Jimmy tells them, _I am not responsible for your wretched annihilation. _The butterflies don’t reply, but he thinks they understand.

When it’s _really _time for goodbye, Jimmy says, “It’s not too late, Brady.” even though he barely understands what he’s trying to accomplish saying so. Evidently, he’s not above begging, and evidently as well, Brady’s not that easy to shake. He’s unable to be shaken at all, actually.

Brady shakes his head right away, like he’s known Jimmy’s move all along, has already prepared a counteraction for it. “Choi’s downfall won’t be on my hands, Vesey,” Brady says, then, kissing Jimmy one last time, “I’ll miss you.”

Jimmy wants to scream, _you asshole, you fucking bastard_, but doesn’t. Clutches at it, instead, Brady’s last words, said like it’s a fact. _I’ll miss you_. Like it’s fucking obvious Jimmy’s going to be buried in cement or burnt in freaky fire or beaten to death with yet another crowbar by the end of the day, like there’s no other outcome but _that_, Jimmy dying and Brady missing him.

Here’s how the heist actually goes: it doesn’t go at all.

Apparently Japanese dude’s plan isn’t limited to saving his own ass—his plan is saving all of them as well as tearing down the dirty and bloodied wall Choi’s built around himself. There’s a replica of an art sculpture, a recording device, some colorful threatening remarks, and murder confessions involved. Jimmy doesn’t look too deep into it.

Here’s the gist, anyway: Choi’s done. His downfall really wasn’t on Brady’s hands—it was on Japanese dude’s who turns out to be the smartest and most meticulous out of the bunch of them. They’re only required to attend a few hearings to testify, released right after. No proof of their _willing _involvement in the crimes, no point in holding them, right?

But Brady—Brady’s a whole different story. The cops know him, he’s been on Choi’s side long enough for them to place him on the ‘bad guys’ column as well. There’s also the ruthless murder of Japanese dude’s accomplice, the cement burial of the accountant, and yet still more to discover.

Brady’s done.

*

Jimmy gets a new life. He sells his New York apartment, goes back home, spends every afternoon of the first month filling out job applications (even though he doesn’t really _need _a job, he has way more money that he knows what to do with, probably enough to last him through three lifetimes, _plus _possible inflation), and settles in.

It’s surprisingly easy, becoming a new person. Not that he changes a lot—he’s still Jimmy; still exceptionally good at computer; still likes his clothes ratty and a little baggy; his technology fetish is more or less still present. He just doesn’t expect it to be so _easy_, maybe.

His dad questions it at first, all suspicious, “Are you in trouble?”

Jimmy laughs. Shakes his head. “Just got out of it,” he replies, doesn’t elaborate further.

Years go by in a series of blinks. One blink, another new year. Two blinks, another family Christmas party. Three blinks, another massive sale on Valentine’s chocolate in the mini market by his house. Again, again, again. Things pass like a breeze.

And then: the first email.

Jimmy thinks nothing of it, initially, pays it the same amount of attention he does every other spam email in his inbox which is to say: nothing at all. But it doesn’t stop, and it’s—hard to ignore, after, because now he knows how to look at it, knows what it means, even though he still isn’t sure who the sender is, and if it’s really meant for him.

They’re haikus, Jimmy learns, the content of those emails. Seventeen syllables in three lines of five, seven, five. He doesn’t immediately zeroed in on Brady—because it’s been so long, Brady no longer a distinct memory, not that Jimmy could ever forget him, even if he tries, even if he does his best.

(His dad asks about it once. Jimmy says, “There’s someone.” and never offers more.)

No, he doesn’t think of Brady right away when he reads the emails. He thinks, _oh, someone’s bored enough to create a haiku from spam emails and send it over to me. _He puts a star on each of them, though, because they’re beautiful, and he wants to look back at them someday.

The twelfth email, though. The twelfth email says:

**Subject: Poetry Spam #12**

_ furious flutter _   
_ awakened hummingbird heart _   
_hello hello love_

> —Original Message—
> 
> Subject: _hello objectify simmer tenement checklist_
> 
> _ Roadway hunk mat freudian mischievous buckboard love gubernatorial snuggle cretin flatulent furbish quantity furious seventieth controlled con tireless stereoscopy hummingbird lunch mutineer fourth dialysis backlash concur triumphal percussive allotting coxcomb desist copter aforesaid percent income causation frilly incorporate awakened crosslink bleach apollonian skullcap suspend betray ethel adjourn inhibition heart consider fell pride compose foster dope inviolate flutter assuage chock whale singlehanded sawtooth condescend sunshiny connote prissy hello_

And just like that, Jimmy _knows._

Tracking someone’s IP address isn’t hard for Jimmy, never is, especially when the person he’s trying to find is trying to be _found _as well. In a matter of seconds, he’s got it. Easily.

Brady’s name is Brady Skjei. He lives an hour away from Charlestown. He got out of prison seven months and twelve days ago. He teaches five kinds of martial arts. He doesn't wear suits that often anymore. He likes making haikus from spam emails, because he's smart enough to do so, but stupid enough to address them to Jimmy.

All evidence points to the fact that he’s maybe—he’s maybe still a little bit in love with Jimmy.

Jimmy’s maybe still a little bit in love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> The spam email-turned-haiku is courtesy to Megan McCafferty's book, _Charmed Thirds, _because I'm dumb and don't have even a single creative cell in my body. Sorry. Also: [the scar](https://limjuhwan.tumblr.com/post/146304399287/lim-ju-hwan-in-the-technicians-aka-the-con/amp)!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Kudos and comments would be super duper appreciated <3


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